The Way I Am Now (The Way I Used to Be)

On Monday after class, I walk into the café and buy two bags of the nice dark-roast coffee with my employee discount. Then I go into the back to find Captain Douchebag at his desk.

“I have to quit,” I tell him.

He looks at me, stone-faced, like I’m supposed to care that I’m making him mad. “I assume you’re not giving two weeks’ notice, either; you’re just leaving.”

“Yes,” I tell him.

“Well.” He breathes in, plucks the pen from behind his ear and tosses it onto his desk, and says, “I don’t know what we’ll do without you. You were such an asset.”

I have the thought immediately and hold back for a moment, but then decide, why not? He really doesn’t matter. There’s nothing he can do to me. So I smile sweetly, then tell him, “And you were such an asshole.”

I stand there for just a second so I can watch as his mouth drops open. Then I set my cleaned and folded apron on his desk and walk away.

“Don’t expect a reference!” he yells after me.

I avoid eye contact with Perry on my way out, because he doesn’t matter either.

I keep my next appointment with my therapist, and she even laughs when I relay my quitting story before going on to point out, more seriously, why this is a sign that I’m making progress.

I go to every class for the last two weeks of the semester and do not put Josh’s shirt back on again even after I wash it. I’m sure this is somehow progress too, even though it doesn’t feel like it. I let Parker drag me out for a jog a few times, and she tries not to laugh too hard when I can’t make it more than thirty seconds without needing a break.

But I get better every time, especially when I realized that the breathing is not so different from when I used to play clarinet. Using the diaphragm, deep breaths all the way to the bottom of my lungs—it comes back to me so easily, somehow.

We have one week between the last day of classes and the first day of finals. The only obligation either of us has, other than swim practice for Parker and working in the library for me, is to study for our exams.

Parker is the only reason I know what to do with myself at all and don’t get swallowed up by the overwhelming task of trying to figure out how to study. Everything was daunting and had me on the verge of multiple panic attacks until she initiated me into her Study-a-Thon ritual. She brings me smoothies in the mornings and we order in food for Kim McCrorey each night. I make us a pot of dark roast to share in the afternoons, while we camp out in the living room with our books and notes and laptops. We stay up until midnight every night and wake up at seven to go jogging.

It feels good to use my brain for something other than worrying and hating myself. And it feels good to treat my body well for a change. For so long it seemed like the only time my body felt good was when Josh was making it feel that way. But this is different. I’m doing this. Working my muscles, getting stronger, feeding my body, actually taking care of myself for once.

I jog out on my own the Sunday before finals start because I’m so pumped with this new energy, Parker told me to go away and leave her alone so she could take a nap. So I run around the block at first, then back again, and it’s not until I double back past the gelato place that I begin to feel how cold it’s getting with the sun going down, my fingers and toes starting to go numb. I need something to warm me up before I head home. There’s a handwritten WE’RE HIRING sign near the register this time. Chelsea pops up from her seat behind the counter, where she’s got a book open in front of her.

“My name is Chelsea,” she says, her voice flat and bored like last time. “I’ll be your barista today.”

“Oh, hi,” I say, happy to see her for no reason. “I came in here once before when you were working. You probably don’t remember me.”

She just stares.

“You studying?” I ask her, gesturing to her open book.

“Yeah, well, it’s been pretty dead all day. Guess no one wants gelato when it’s doing”—her eyes shift to the drizzle hitting the window—“ that outside.”

I laugh, she doesn’t.

“So?” she says.

“Oh, yeah. Can I get a hot chocolate to go?” I ask.

She starts making my drink and pushes her glasses up. While I stand there, I look around behind the counter, wondering if maybe this would be a safe place to work, if I could imagine myself slinging gelato and coffee here. But then I catch a glimpse of something familiar sitting next to Chelsea’s seat. She comes back over and snaps a lid on the cup, slides it across the counter toward me, and says, “Here you are. One hot chocolate. To go.”

“Hey, can I ask, what instrument do you play?” I gesture to her case—one that looks a lot more beat-up than mine, covered with stickers and scratches and scuff marks, having seen more of the world than mine has.

She glances down at her case too, and when she looks back up at me, she’s actually smiling. “The sax,” she answers. “Well, and piano, and guitar. You play?”

“Oh, I don’t—I used to play clarinet in high school, but not anymore.”

“Too bad, we actually need a clarinetist.”

“Like for an orchestra or something?” I ask, puzzled by the strange flutter in my voice.

“Well, it’s not quite that formal. I mean, I am in the university orchestra—I’m a music major, so . . . first year,” she adds with a shrug. “But there’s this other group that’s open to all students. It’s the Tuck Hill Campus Band.”

“Oh,” I say, feeling my body inching closer, curious.

“You haven’t heard of it?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Well, it’s kind of an ensemble. But anyone can audition. We don’t really do official concerts; we just perform at different campus events. I guess it’s more about having fun.” She looks around quickly, like she’s caught off guard by her own talkativeness. “It’s nice. We practice together once a week. Low pressure—no pressure, really—compared to everything else, I mean.”

I feel my head nodding, because I know exactly what she means, this fellow first-year student, by pressure. It’s different from high school. Everything’s different here. It’s only at this moment I realize that pressure, that difference, isn’t something I’ve been able to talk about with anyone—not Josh or Parker or Dominic— because they’re all already past the newness of it. But I’m not; I’m in it. Right now I’m directly in the middle of it.

“You interested, or . . . ?”

She lets the question dangle there.

“Me?” I double-check. “Seriously?”

“I’m always serious,” she replies, monotone, but then flashes a brief smile. She’s kind of strange, this girl, but I kind of like it.

“Oh God, I don’t know, I’m really rusty. I haven’t even taken my clarinet out of its case in—” I stop myself, because I was going to say years, but that’s not true. I’d almost forgotten about my clarinet sitting there, waiting, on the top shelf of my closet. “I did play for like six years, though, before I stopped,” I add, wondering who I’m trying to convince of my worthiness, myself or Chelsea.

“Six years isn’t nothing,” she says. “Rusty’s okay. It’s not like it’s the symphony or anything.”

“Um, all right.”

“I can text you before the next practice if you wanna check it out. It won’t be until after exam week, though. Will you be around over winter break?”

“Yes,” I hear myself saying, making the decision right there on the spot, that I don’t want to go home for winter break. “I’ll be here.”

She hands me her phone to put my number in.

“Okay,” she says, looking at my contact info and adding, “Eden.”Belongs to (N)ôvel/Drama.Org.

I walk home, sipping on my hot chocolate, realizing I completely forgot about asking for a job application. But I’m feeling pretty good about myself anyway, as the snow starts to fall, glistening as it collects on the ground and sticks to my hair and clothes.

An informal ensemble band, not for grades or credits. I smile to myself as I cross the street, remembering the feeling of being in a loud music room, the part right at the end of every rehearsal, when everyone would just sort of let loose and wail their instruments at the same time, to no particular tune or song or rhythm—just an all-at-once cacophony of sound—for fun.

When I come in the door, he’s standing there at the bank of mailboxes. He’s committed to the beard now. And he’s wearing his green plaid flannel shirt that he once let me wear when I stayed over, and all I can think about is how soft and warm it was.

“Hi-hey,” he says, seeming startled to be standing here face-to-face with me for the first time in a month.

“Hi,” I manage to say back.

He searches my eyes, and I’m pretty sure I’m searching his right back, for some clue of what we’re supposed to do. But I’m unable to look away, unable to speak, unable to move.

“Um,” he utters. “You . . . look . . .”

“Cold?” I offer.

He smiles, and it’s so beautiful I can’t help but smile back. He licks his lips and swallows as he steps closer to me. He reaches for my hand, and I let him. “I miss you,” he says quietly.

I nod and squeeze his hand once before forcing myself to let go and take a step away from him. “I miss you too,” I tell him, because that’s the truth. “But I’m not ready.”

“Okay,” he says. And he simply stands there holding his mail close to his chest while I walk up the stairs.